Through the Looking Glass
by talkofcake
Summary: She begged the mirror to show her something ugly and old. A darker character exploration of Helen Magnus.


Nails scrape across flesh, then fingers knead and massage the disturbed skin. Her hands roam the memorized map of her face like they have for the past century.

It's her ritual.

In the privacy of her bedroom, under the telling bright lights that leave no blemish left unseen, she finds none. There are no wrinkles. There's not one age spot. There isn't a single laugh line that hasn't been there since, at the middle of her thirtieth decade, blood not her own mingled inside of her and preserved her, suspended her, in the state that she is and always will be.

Four of the Five had received extraordinary powers. Two of those four were driven mad. The other two had lived generous lives and passed away, and here she is, with not even a damn wrinkle and no powerful gift to save (or destroy) the world with.

But Helen Magnus is going to live forever.

She frowns at the face looking back at her in the glass, the face that hasn't changed in over a century and never will. She frowns deeper and gazes at her dark curls. Perhaps dying her hair had simply been a rebellious, desperate need for change. Change in what she sees staring back. Twenty years ago the change had helped. But now, as she nears her one-hundred and sixtieth decade (her third lifetime), it begins to wear off. Such is evidenced by the fading roots at her scalp that she has uncharacteristically left untended.

She continues to mold her face, stretching her skin, pleading with the mirror to show her something ugly and old.

This is her ritual.

Her private ritual.

Her blue eyes catch sight of a figure leaning against the doorjamb, a witness to her suddenly not-so-private nightly routine. She feels naked and exposed and humiliated to his curious eyes.

He notices she has caught his reflection. He straightens in the doorway and clears his throat, and she drops her hands but does not turn around.

"I just..."

His voice trails off, and he slowly takes a step into her bedroom.

"Your door was open."

A defense, an explanation, an apology.

She stands there, unmoving, watches his figure in the mirror, for once not sure what her next move will be and if she'll even have one.

The silence begins to make noise. It rings in their ears as moments tick by and no one speaks.

He looks hesitant and awkward, and she finds it ironic given the circumstances. She is the one caught in the act of criticizing her face in the mirror like an aging woman.

Only aging women are horrified when they find a wrinkle, and Helen begs the mirror to reveal them to her.

It never does.

Helen feels old. Very old. Not physically, although some nights her many days on end without sleep catches up with her. She feels her age through the fifty-seven thousand, five-hundred and ninety days she's witnessed; the course of two lifetimes she has no right to have experienced.

"You said something to me when we first met," he begins again, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and glances down at the floor. "You implied that your age is both a blessing and a curse."

She nods once, more in remembrance than agreement.

"Then on the submarine," he continues, "when you were under the influence of that parasite, you said some things that surprised me, but I couldn't bring myself not to believe about you."

She raises one eyebrow and cocks her head slightly, still peering at him only by reflection and not quite ready to muster the strength to turn around and look at him without a barrier.

"I can't begin to understand what it's been like for you all these years."

"No, you can't," she acknowledges.

"But I do know that it can't be easy."

"It isn't."

"And I just...I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, if you'd ever want to talk about it or anything."

He still looks awkward and unsure of himself, and with such a blatant admonishment in a room full of mystery and question, she doesn't in the least bit expect a confident demeanor from him.

He shifts uneasily behind her.

She hadn't realized she's holding her breath, but as he finally turns to leave, she feels oxygen escape from her lungs and relief begin to flood her. She watches him and is somehow unsurprised when he pauses in the doorway, something obviously still plaguing him. But he shakes his head, deciding some demons are better left to rest, and leaves her alone with her looking glass that will tell her nothing she wants to hear.


End file.
